


Frost not Fire

by cms52990



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x18, Coda, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3834610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cms52990/pseuds/cms52990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment with Castiel and Dean on the roof of the Bunker - "Book of the Damned" coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frost not Fire

It was a spring night, which, you know, great, but spring nights in Lebanon, Kansas, you can still see your breath frost the air sometimes.  Dean exhaled heavily, relieved to see the condensation.  He knew it won’t last forever - it’s been taken from him before.  It’ll be taken again.

Maybe it’ll be different this time.  Maybe he’ll breathe fire instead of ice, with the Mark of Cain burning like a brand into his flesh - burning deeper, into the rest of him.  Into his soul.  If he even has a soul anymore.

He pumped the brakes on that particular line of thought before it inspired him to jump off the nearest skyscraper.  Breathed out again.

Frost, not fire.  A wash of relief, however minor.

The sound of the rooftop door swinging open and closed was just about the furthest thing from a surprise.  Seemed these days he couldn’t go two seconds without someone turning puppy-dog eyes on him and asking, gratingly soft, how he was “doing”.  _I’m “doing” fine,_ he wanted to growl. _I’m “doing” same as I’m always doing.  Just now you can see it.  It’s out in the open.  Exposed._ Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for The Real Dean Winchester.

He was probably feeling sorry for himself.  He didn’t really give a crap.

“Sam told me I should leave you alone.”

The voice was gravelly and low and instantly recognizable and it made Dean flinch for some reason.  He huddled into his jacket, pulling it close and resisting the urge to glance back over his shoulder.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“But Charlie told me I should come up here with you.  She said it was my destiny.”

“To hang out on the Bunker roof with me at one in the morning?”

“She read it in her ‘fortune teller’.”  The quotation marks slammed down heavily around the phrase as Cas sunk down onto the roof next to Dean.  And now Dean couldn’t help but spare him a glance.  Cas was explaining this sequence of events as though it was the most straightforward in the entire world.   _Of course he is._

“I have my doubts with regards to her precognitive abilities, but I decided to take my chances,” Cas continued gravely.  

Cas was one stoic sonuvabitch, but Dean had known him long enough to notice the tiny crinkles at the corners of his friend’s eyes.  “You’re messing with me.”

The small smile that flickered across Cas’s face was as earth-shattering as any grin.  “It’s been a good day.”

“Maybe you missed the news bulletin, but I spent it brawling with a family of Cajun maniacs over a book made from a nun’s skin.”

“And in the grand scheme of things, that’s a pretty good day for you, isn’t it?”

“You’re a real ray of sunshine.”

And Dean may have been joking, five beers in, and Cas may have laughed, but the truth of the matter was that Cas did radiate comforting warmth at Dean’s side.  They sat in silence for a long moment, Dean watching billows of condensation float into the night sky.

The realization hit him out of nowhere.

“You’re breathing.”

Cas huffed a chuckle.  “Yes.”

“Angels don’t need to breathe.”

“I got into the habit.”

“When you were human?”

“Before,” Castiel said, shaking his head.  “Sometime between fleeing Chastity in Maine and facing off with Lucifer in Carthage.  He could tell - did I ever tell you that?”  Dean shook his head.  “He knew there was something off about me - and it wasn’t just that I had the dubious honor of fighting side-by-side with the Winchesters.  He just couldn't understand why I was - what I was doing -”  he broke off, scrubbing a hand down his face in an achingly familiar gesture.  "He just didn't understand my choices."

Dean quirked an eyebrow.  "'Dubious’?”

“How many times have I died since I met you?”

The words punched little holes in Dean’s chest, even though he knew Cas was (mostly) joking.  His gaze snapped to the ground, studying the cement under his boots.  “I never wanted-”

“I know.”  Dean didn’t meet his eyes and Cas sighed, frustrated.  “Dean, I _know_.  Oh, for the love of-”

The shock of the near-blasphemy from Castiel’s lips had Dean’s head snapping up.  The guy was rummaging in the pocket of his trench coat, extracting something small and flat - and Dean let out a groan when he realized what it was.

“Seriously, man?” he grumbled.  “Charlie give you that thing?”

“She taught me how to use it as well,” Cas said placidly, folding the fortune teller back into shape.  “She also referred to it as a ‘cootie-catcher’ -” and here Dean couldn’t help the strangled _snrk_ of laughter that wrenched from his throat - “and Sam had much the same reaction that you just did.  She called him ‘a third grader’.  Why?”  He studied the paper in his hands.  “Is it because the word ‘cootie’ resembles a slang term for female genitalia?”

Dean was shaking with the effort of holding back laughter - hearing the word “cootie” twice in Castiel’s serious voice was too much.  The angel shook his head, turning his attention back to the fortune teller. Dean could swear he heard him scoff the words “ _third-grader_ ” under his breath.

“C’mon, Cas-” Dean protested as the angel slipped his fingers into the paper.  

“You seem determined to cling to the idea that you are poison,” Cas said lightly.  “I am going to prove to you that you have a long and happy life ahead of you.”

“This thing’s not real, you know that - Charlie made it out of a pizza napkin.”

“Pick a color.”

Dean hesitated, staring down at the fortune teller.  For some reason - and he knew it was silly - it felt unsettlingly similar to staring down the barrel of the gun.  He opened his mouth to tell Cas to fuck the hell off -

But Cas’s eyes were intense, mouth set in a firm line.  He had his smiting-face on.

Dean gulped, mouth going dry.  A word tickled at the back of his throat - _blue_ \- but he’d had years to learn to repress that particular urge.  

“Yellow,” he finally managed to croak.

“Y-E-L-L-O-W,” Cas said, flipping the fortune teller with each letter.  “Pick a number.”

“Five.”

“One, two, three, four, five.  Pick a drawing.”

“I’ll - uh - is that an X-Wing?”

“Charlie made the fortune teller.  Are you ready, Dean?”  

He knew it was a kid’s game.  He knew it was just a dumb, stupid kid's game, but Dean’s heart was racing.  He nodded, wordless, watching as Cas reached for the flap with his long fingers, feeling his breath grow shallow as his future was revealed -

“You will defeat the Dark Lord in battle with the help of your friends Ron and Hermione.”

There was a moment’s pause.  Dean barked a laugh, sitting back on his hands.  “You did say Charlie made it.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Cas said, sounding so rueful that Dean couldn’t help but shoot him an amused smile. 

“Eh, you’re just trying to help.”  Dean nudged the other man with his shoulder.  “And hey - maybe it’s a metaphor, or some shit like that.  Fuck knows we’ve faced down enough Dark Lord types in our lifetimes.”

Cas’ mouth twisted in a bitter smile.  “As someone who had the privilege to _be_ one of those Dark Lords - ”

“If I’m not allowed to self-pity tonight, then neither are you.”  

“Dean -”

“You’re back now, right?  You got your juice, mojo, whatever - you’re the Energizer Bunny again.  Things are good.  We had a good day.”

“What about the book with the nun-skin -”

“Nun-skin is nun-skin.  It’s fine, no one died.  Except for probably that nun.  So you were right - it was a good day, and we should be celebrating.”

Cas didn’t respond to that immediately.  He was staring at Dean, in that breathtakingly intense way he had, cataloging every detail of Dean’s face.  And if Dean wasn’t totally mistaken - the man’s eyes seemed to linger on his lips.

Suddenly Dean’s jeans were just a little too tight.

“Gimme that damn thing - ”  The words came galloping out before Dean had a chance to check them at the gate.  He lunged across Cas, snatching the fortune teller out of his opposite hand.  

“Are you going to tell me I am destined to have an unfortunate experience with a shipload of Tribbles?” Cas asked, his voice low with amusement and… something else.  

Without consulting him about it, Dean’s rebellious heart was starting to pick up the pace.  “We’ll just have to see,” he said.  “So.  Pick a color.”

Cas’s gaze never wavered from Dean’s eyes.  “Green.”

 _Shit_.  “G-R-E-E-N,” Dean managed.  His jeans were definitely too tight now, his zipper making itself known in the most uncomfortable way.  He shifted, trying to alleviate the pressure and failing miserably.  “Pick a number.”

“Seven.”

“One, two, three, four, five, s-” Dean broke off with something approaching a gasp.  Cas had apparently decided he needed an up-close and personal vantage point for this process, and was leaning over Dean’s lap to get a better view.  He could feel Cas’s breath brushing against his fingertips, and he hoped to whoever the hell was listening that his hands weren’t shaking.  “- six, seven.”  He took a calming gulp of oxygen and let it out.  Frost filled the air.  “Pick a drawing.”

The tip of Castiel’s finger caressed the paper.  “Excalibur.  Please.”

Dean slid his own finger under the flap and -

Stopped.  Staring at the breath that puffed from between Castiel's lips. 

 _"He just didn't understand my choices."_   That was what Cas had said.  Lucifer had never understood them, not really -

Dean lifted the flap - but didn’t look at what was written underneath.  Instead, he turned the fortune teller back to Castiel, holding it out.

“What - ”

“It’s your future, Cas.  I’m not gonna tell you how to live it.”  He pushed it into Cas’s chest.  “Free will, right?  That’s what it was always about for us.  So - vanquish the Dark Lord or the Tribbles or whatever.  You got your grace back - you can do whatever you want.  And you get to choose what that is.”

The angel’s eyes darkened.  Smite-face was back.  Dean fought back a shiver -

\- and completely failed to fight back the _next_ shiver as the angel grabbed his arm - the one with the Mark of Cain - and pulled him to his chest.  Dean landed sideways with a breathy “oof!” 

His eyes locked on Castiel’s for a long moment ( _blue, blue, blue_ chanted his scratched-record brain) - both silently asking “Are we good?” and both silently answering “Oh fuck yes.”

Something ignited in Dean’s chest that had absolutely nothing to do with the infernal brand blazing his arm.  He lurched forward and pressed his lips against Cas' (or attempted to, since his eagerness fucked his aim the first time around).  The other man pressed back, chest-to-chest with Dean, panting and, fuck, _whimpering_ into Dean’s mouth in a way that severely tested the boundaries of his already-strained self-control.

And so maybe they didn’t make it all the way back into the Bunker before ripping one another’s clothes off.  And maybe they’d get sticky and sore.  And maybe Sam would stare, slightly horrified, at the hickies on Cas’s throat the next morning.  And maybe Charlie would hi-five Dean.  And maybe it would be awkward for a little while, the way it always is when two best friends hook up.  And maybe the future was weird and crazy and mostly spinning out of their control -

But there were a few things they could choose.  On the roof of that bunker, with their breath puffing frosty towards the stars and their hands all over one another - it seemed fucking stupid to choose anything but each other.


End file.
